The Physics of Peanut Butter and Jelly
by Tragic Alchemy
Summary: Pure fluff. Fun snapshots of an established Sherlolly relationship. What "everyday" occurrence will our favorite pathologist and detective encounter today? How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: While there is currently only one entry, I decided to leave this open for further exploration. This will someday be a series of snapshots, drabbles, and pure fluffiness. For this first selection, I gathered the prompt from a message board. This particular fan was tired of all the angsty fanfics with Sherlolly. While their relationship is most certainly littered with angst, I thought it _would_ be nice to have a break. Hope you enjoy! (By the way, I'm always accepting prompts for future drabbles ;p).

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (rats!).

The Physics of Peanut Butter and Jelly

1

"I don't get it," Sherlock muttered while standing in the doorway from his kitchen to living area in his flat at 221B Baker Street. He was watching Molly create an apparent childhood favorite of hers, but he couldn't seem to piece together what made it so special. It was a layer of peanut butter and a smear of jam surrounded by bread. Why was she always so excited to eat it? _Sentiment_.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the main reason he ate was purely for survival. There wasn't much enjoyment to gain from the experience. But Molly? Every time she collected the supplies for this simple snack, her skin would become a comfortable shade of pink, and her eyes would flicker with a magical fire.

"What is there to get, silly?" Molly questioned as she gently pressed the final project together and positioned her knife to slice the sandwich diagonally. Not straight across. Never straight across. Sherlock had learned _that_ the hard way when Molly finally had to scold him for the sixteenth time. Yes, sixteenth. He had counted. Regardless of Sherlock's insistence that the shape of an item could hardly influence the flavor, Molly held her ground. Never had Sherlock seen Molly get so fired up about something, and it amused him that a sandwich of all things was what would do it.

"It's a sandwich," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Nice deduction, detective," Molly joked as she picked up the paper plate to carry it over to the couch. Sherlock remained in the doorway with a curious I'm-going-to-figure-this-out-one-day look in his eyes. When Molly got to him, she looked up expectantly, ready for him to move aside for her to pass. When he instead just stood there continuing to study her, she jabbed a finger into his side. This was a daring move for Molly, as she had never used this childish, yet affectionate form of touch to get her way. Something strange happened, though. Instead of Sherlock taking the unexpected contact in stride as he did so many other things, he reacted quite strongly. Not only had he moved from the doorway after Molly's finger had collided with his abdomen, he had leapt several paces backwards and hunched himself over in a defensive position. With this, Molly's facial expression went from one of surprise, to delight, and finally to one of pure calculation.

"You're ticklish," she decided.

"No."

"You are," she pressed on.

"Don't," he said. Molly turned, placed her plate on the kitchen table, and then faced Sherlock again.

"Don't what?" she asked jokingly, knowing exactly what he was referring to. But there was no stopping it as Molly had already made up her mind. While she may have seemed ambivalent to many, Sherlock had known her long enough to know that although it took her a fair amount of time to make a decision, once she had actually _made_ the decision, there was no changing her mind.

"Please don't," he tried again.

"Are you pleading?"

"Yes," he said flatly. Oh, he was trying so hard to mask his panic.

"'I'm Sherlock," Molly mocked in a gruff voice well below her natural octave of speaking while pouting her lips in a funny way as she tried to reach Sherlock's baritone notes. "'I never beg.' Isn't that what you told that one woman?" Molly was of course referring to Irene Adler. Molly reveled in the glory of having one up on this rival from long ago.

"People change," he said, obviously grasping at straws by this point. His heart rate was beginning to rise as he took note of Molly's change in posture. She was readying herself for the pounce.

"Yes, they do," she agreed. "For example, years ago I truly wouldn't have considered doing what I'm about to do.

"Molly," he warned, completely unnerved.

"Sherlock," she returned playfully, and she dove for his middle, digging her fingers into him. Sherlock attempted to grasp for her hands, but he couldn't focus. Instead, a string of unrecognizable laughter was coming out of his mouth.

"Stop," he gasped in between chortles, trying to hold his arms over his sensitive areas. Molly's soprano giggles joined Sherlock's laughter. She was really enjoying having the upper hand, even if it was in a "tickle fight." Tickle fight… the moment her mind wrapped itself around that phrase, it was evident that Sherlock must have found the same term. No longer was this fight one-sided; Sherlock's fingers reached out to zestfully poke at _her_ sides. Only she didn't respond the same way he did… she was still able to contain her own limbs and continue the offensive tickling.

Sherlock frowned, which immediately bothered Molly. "What is it?" she asked as she backed up.

"I'm ticklish," he said.

"I've figured that one out on my own, thanks," she said with a smile.

"But you're not?" Her smile broadened. A weakness Sherlock Holmes had that Molly Hooper did not. Today was a good day.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Entry two of the oneshot collection. Like the first, this was inspired by Sherlolly prompt on a public forum. Still trying to keep the fun, light-hearted scenes going because we don't get nearly enough of them. If you have ideas of your own, shoot 'em my way, and I'll see what I can do! Much love!

Disclaimer: Sherlock = not mine.

The Physics of Peanut Butter and Jelly

2

Molly was working another long day at Bart's, sifting through the numerous amounts of paperwork that had been handed to her in regards to a multiple car pileup that had happened a day prior just outside of London. Black and red ink graced the pages in a random order, and Molly sighed as she tried to decide whether she preferred to have her mind engaged in such a manner or back in the comfortable privacy of Sherlock's flat, the stale air smelling of black tea and the stained paper of the first edition literature lined upon the shelves in the sitting room. She decided upon the latter but knew that her presence was necessary at the morgue.

Her paperwork was strewn across the tabletop as she tried desperately to place Alana Garcia's file back in the proper order. She was missing page four… where did it go?! Growling in minor frustration, Molly moved to start piecing together Frank Savoy's file instead, of which she surprisingly managed to locate every associated page. Molly placed Mr. Savoy's paperwork into a manila envelope and set it upon a second tabletop when her favorite consulting detective interrupted her quiet.

"Hey you," she managed, trying to pull herself away from puzzle of the still absent page belonging to Alana. Sherlock was suddenly in front of her, the air heavy and urgent around him. His gaze was intense as he stood before her, his jaw clenched in what could only be considered grave consequence. Concern abruptly clouded Molly's sight, and she attempted to decode his solemn expression. "…Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"There's something of great importance I have recently discovered that I must tell you," he said in a rapid succession of words.

"…Now?"

"It could not be postponed any longer," he pushed. Molly attempted to glance at the clock over his shoulder, but he was significantly taller than her and blocking her view. How long had she been entranced with Alana Garcia? Had she forgotten completely to clock out as scheduled? "It's 3 o'clock," he said without her having to say as much. He simply followed her gape and deduced from there.

3 o'clock. It was an hour before she was supposed to end her shift, so she hadn't let time slip away from her. Sherlock, on the other hand, had let something of urgency slip away from him as he was, at that very moment, standing before her. "So tell me what's wrong," she requested, placing gentle hands upon each of his forearms. It was the best way she knew to show concern and encouragement.

"I have discovered something of utmost importance that I must address now," he began again.

"So… address it," Molly said, a tender smile playing at her lips. He took a deep breath, and that same worry pulled at the corners of Molly's mind. Something was insanely off. Sherlock wouldn't normally appear this off-kilter, so what had him so spooked?

"Iloveyou," he swiftly breathed in an almost inaudible syllable. Molly couldn't have heard that correctly…

"…What?" she clarified.

Another funny exhale from Sherlock coupled with averted eyes and pursed lips.

"Iloveyou," it came again.

"You…" Molly breathed as her head spun. What. Just. Happened? Then it occurred to her… "You're high," she decided.

"What? No!" Sherlock countered defensively.

"You are," Molly pushed back, certain that only substances could be to blame for this enthralling judgment call of his.

"I'm not," Sherlock contested again.

Molly shook her head defiantly, not believing Sherlock's assessment of his own state of consciousness. "Prove it," she said with a scoff and some sass as she pushed past him to grab a beaker. She handed it off to him without another word, but he simply stared at it blankly.

"Molly, I'm not high. I'm serious. I love you." Molly rapidly rolled her eyes and bit her bottom lip out of sheer aggravation. "Molly," he tried again.

"Sherlock."

"I…"

"Am high? Just pee in the jar, and we'll see about that other part."

"I. Love…"

"The jar, Sherlock!" Molly shouted, thrusting the glass beaker into his chest. He studied her for a moment and conceded, taking the beaker from her and turning to head toward the restroom.

He stopped at the doorway and then briefly turned back. "That missing page you're looking for was accidently placed in Oliver Hill's file." And then he was gone.

* * *

Molly directed the urine sample from an extended eyedropper onto a petri dish for further examination. She slid the dish upon the microscope, took a deep breath, and lowered her pulsing iris toward the eyepiece. There it was. Clear as day. She stood back to contemplate how she should behaviorally follow up her observation while Sherlock's eyes were locked upon her, a ghost of irritation upon his brow.

In a flood of emotion, Molly threw herself at him, embracing his neck so tightly he had to cough in minor protest. "Sorry," Molly laughed as she withdrew herself from him. She cleared her throat and said it again. "I'm sorry. I was wrong." Turns out, his proclamation of love wasn't out of a drug induced euphoria. Instead, it was an honest confession from that organ so many doubted he even possessed – his heart.


End file.
